Maybe some workshops do have these effects (though I really hope not), but this was never my experience. During the three years I spent earning my BA in English and Creative Writing at the University of Iowa, I participated in several workshops, covering topics from romance writing to personal narratives. Some of the workshops were more helpful than others, but I enjoyed each one and used them to improve my craft in different ways. A lot of my peers also enjoyed workshop and felt like it helped make them better writers as well.

But the disconnect—some writers thriving in workshop and others feeling demoralized by it—made me wonder: what exactly about workshop helped me grow as a writer and what did I enjoy most about it?

My first answer feels obvious: emerging writers don’t always have eager readers at their disposal, but workshops give you about a dozen of them. Even better, workshops allow you to share your work and get feedback from readers of varied experience levels and interests. This allows you to take your work outside the echo chamber of your inner circle and hear from those unafraid to give honest criticism that will make you a better writer (read: tell you how you can improve without tearing you down). To me, this was one of the most beneficial parts of workshop, because I didn’t feel like my classmates felt obligated to butter up my work in the same way a close friend or family member might. I wanted tough criticism, and my professors and classmates delivered.

Whether or not you decide to take that feedback is another key part of workshop. When I first started participating in workshops—before college, during summertime writing camps—I felt obligated to take everyone’s feedback and incorporate it into my work. After a while, though, I realized this didn’t always make sense. My stories got jumbled, and plots I wanted to twist in one direction careened in another. People inadvertently made suggestions that did not feel true to my work or my spirit as a creative. My fellow writers meant well with their advice, but that didn’t mean it always made my story better. As a result, I had to learn which critique was actionable and which critique might be better filed away for future work.

Deciding what critique I would incorporate wasn’t always easy, but I usually fell back on the method of who shared the suggestion, why, and if implementing it felt true to my work. Was someone in my workshop really good at dialogue? I’d take their advice that my characters’ speech patterns were too stilted. Did another person make it clear that they understood my vision for the story, and suggest a twist that made it come to life in a more interesting way? Then maybe I’d write that into the story.

I think some people see this selective implementation of ideas as a downfall of workshop. After all, as an emerging writer who’s trying to figure it all out, how do you really know who to listen to (especially in a room of other emerging writers who are also kind of clueless)? When should you trust your instincts or when should you concede your words aren’t working? These are all questions I still think about every time my work faces critique, and I certainly thought about them a lot in college when I was regularly participating in workshop. The fact that workshop brings up these questions feels like good practice for a lifetime of moving through creative spaces where everyone has opinions. Among many things, workshops are a low stakes path to figuring yourself out creatively—both in where you want to expand and what feels unnatural to you.

This can feel overwhelming—workshops are overwhelming sometimes. Though I’ve never seen anyone cry or leave the room in a huff, I remember that most times I was workshopped I brimmed with emotion. I was excited when someone said they liked a line I was particularly proud of, and disappointed when something in my plot didn’t land. I remember sessions during which I tried to write down every word of critique and praise so could remember it all, and I still felt a bit like I was watching the class from behind a glass wall. There were times when I left the period on a high, feeling like I was floating because my story actually worked. Other times, I walked down the street to my dorm room after class, my backpack stuffed with dispassionate notes, knowing I had flopped a little. But even those times never felt fully defeating; many workshops I attended were structured so participants had to share at least one good thing about the piece, so there was always something to celebrate. All the other notes were just avenues to improve and learn, at the discretion of what I would decide to implement.

The final big reason I liked workshop was the proximity to other writers. I wrote earlier that workshops are a great resource for finding critical readers, but it’s even better that those readers are also writers. Not only does participating in the craft themselves likely allow them to share more niche feedback (your character doesn’t have agency! the plot twist is contrived!), it’s also nice to have a vulnerable space to connect with other eager, up-and-coming writers. I think about it like this: I read amazing books all the time, but I’ll be lucky if I ever have the opportunity to even meet those writers, let alone have a detailed conversation with them about the craft. In workshop, though, I met so many incredible writers. We were able to exchange work, ideas, walks, and meals. Even better, some of them became my friends.

You definitely don’t need workshops to become a better writer or make friends in the community, but I wouldn’t trade the experience for the world. Like any other experience, workshop is what you make it.

Have you participated in a writing workshop? What was your experience? Please tell me in the comments below.

Keep storytelling,

Jenna

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Post thumbnail photo by cottonbro studio on Pexels.

Of course, seeing those form rejections roll into my email didn’t feel great. I don’t need to explain to any creative person how disappointing it is to see work that you nurtured for hours, weeks, or months dashed away with the simple words “We have decided not to include your work in our upcoming issue.” Two of my rejections were particularly disappointing because they were the first responses I’ve received on a new short story (a piece that I feel is my best writing in years!).

Still, with each of the past two weeks’ rejections—and the several others I’ve received in recent months—I’ve noticed something has been missing. Namely, that deep, sinking feeling that used to crush in my chest every time I clicked a generic email I knew would be a writing rejection. Don’t get me wrong—the hurt is still there a little bit. For a second, when I read the kind phrasing via which a magazine banishes my work back into the ether, my stomach still drops and my heart twists. Of course I feel disappointed; I was staring at a promising door that just closed in my face.

But where that heart-dropping, twisty feeling used to last for minutes, it now lasts for seconds. Where it used to be dramatic, it now feels similar to a papercut. Rejections still hurt, but they are no longer debilitating to my creativity and optimism as an emerging writer.

It might help that, between my short stories, poems, essays, and old novel draft, I’ve now been rejected hundreds of times by many levels of the publishing industry. I think rejection gets easier by the volume of repetitive experience. But it’s also more than that. When I first started writing, I thought that every new poem or story I wrote was the best thing I would ever write, the thing with the best chance of success in the finicky world of publishing. I thought that if this piece didn’t get published, what would?

Now, after years of consistently writing and submitting work, the landscape feels a bit different. For one, I know that not every new thing I write is the best thing I’ve created or ever will create. In fact, I hope it isn’t—in my opinion, it would be disappointing if I peaked creatively in my early 20s, because I hope to have a long career throughout which I continually build my skills. I study craft and work to experience new things that could inspire stories or grow my worldview. I aim to write things that are different than I might have expected myself to write five years ago. I practice and make mistakes and keep writing. In turn, each new piece I write becomes less of an ultimatum regarding where my skills might max out and more of a creative challenge. I work hard to get published, but if I don’t… Well, I’ll try again with my next thing as soon as it’s ready.

The other thing that makes rejection feel easier is the inherent subjectivity of it. It sounds obvious—writing is art, and art is infamously subjective—but this is something I never fully realized until I witnessed it firsthand as a staff member of a couple literary magazines when I was in college. I read dozens of submissions and participated in our group discussions regarding which pieces should be published. In the large meeting room, where we all took station around a U-shaped table, I heard pieces get accepted and rejected for various reasons. Sometimes, an editor would champion a piece so passionately and vehemently that it would be selected for publication even when the majority of editors were not in favor. I heard other works get rejected—even though we all liked them—just because an equally-good piece had a similar theme and we’d opted to publish that one instead. Every choice for and against publication was conscientious, well thought out, and respectful, but of course not all works could be accepted. Some really good writers lost out, and others were lucky.

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Not all magazines have the same group decision-making process (some have just a single editor, for example), but I feel grateful to have heard those discussions before I ever started seriously submitting my own work. It showed me that rejection isn’t personal; even more, your work can be beloved and rejected at the same time.

I try to think of it this way: rejections are more like considerations. They show you that you still have opportunities to improve, but they aren’t definitive. They shouldn’t send your creative self-worth into a spiral; they should make you think about where else your work might be a better fit. Because someone out there will love your work—you just have to figure out how to get it in front of them.

This is the feeling that I always come back to when I submit my work: hope. It can be scary to submit and disappointing if you’re rejected. But every time I queue up a new submission form and upload my file, I can’t help but feel a trill of excitement at the challenge of it all. Excitement that my poems or stories will land in the inbox of a complete stranger. And maybe, just maybe, that stranger will fall in love.

Stay hopeful,

Jenna

P.S. I got an acceptance! I have a new hot, summery love poem called “Skinny Dipping” coming out in The Bloomin’ Onion on August 18th. I’m pinching myself a little, because this piece received quite a few rejections before placement. Case in point for staying hopeful about your work. :)

Post thumbnail photo by Simonetta Pugnaghi on Unsplash.

Last night, I searched a dark house
for my life purpose & found a girl
with a secret. She wore a golden
sweatshirt over a wedding gown;
when I asked of her betrothed,
she said with the soft confidence
of liberation, Myself. If only I had
known it then, as she does—some
lives are harder to wear than others.

i toss the red pepper seeds from our plates
into the wastebin like salt over my shoulder
      you touched last night and i want
to remember every way our love is a garden
pruned in the bathtub until our bodies brim
      with suds and pasta sauce and wine
is only grapes that became enamored under
the hungry friction of their lover’s kissing
      you has become my favorite dinner
to protect in Tupperware so i can still savor
your love on my tongue at the breakfast table.

(This poem was originally published in the April 2024 issue of New Moon Magazine at the University of Iowa.)

i fold this black dress like arms
         over my stomach turns
away from you; how can i look
at death like i loved you enough
        in life we are dolls played
cruelly and still i put on my clothes.

But first, the scream. No, I’m not dramatic
when chant the word fuck under my breath

as Spotify doesn’t load its promisingly ugly
black and green interface for my listening

addiction. The betrayals continue with everything;
all holy entertainment suddenly ephemeral as God

awful pixels in cyberspace. In the quiet absence,
I can think of nothing but counting each after

life—the pianist who was about to serenade
me via the Cloud, the thirty-something girl

friend regaling me with the tale of fleeing
her murderous lover, the period drama miss

fortune of a car wreck on the eve of a birth. In
weeks, I haven’t tried to write my own back

story, wasting this life on my puddled couch, 
missing that true lover with all the answers—

How can I reset my router? How do I live
in my own head? Refresh, refresh, refresh.

of every poem I’ve written
for you, every story tucked
into the leather-bound tomes
on my old bookshelf, each
sentence I whisper into the quiet
of your cheek resting on our
pillows after midnight. What
else is there to build into words
when everything is love?

(I hope you enjoyed this poem! If you want to read more, I have a new poem out in petrichor called “Appomattox.” It’s about love, searching for shipwrecks, and summertime in Wisconsin.)

I grew up in Florida, where every summer was interspersed with frequent snorkeling trips. We would strap on our masks and shove off the back of a small boat, flippers clumsy in the warm water, and spend hours watching bright-colored fish dance between the rocks. If I was lucky, we would see other things, too: sea turtles or sting rays or eels or nurse sharks. I remember swimming for hours—sometimes all the way to the beach and back—and treading water until my arms grew heavy. And then, when we were done exploring, the perfect ending to every trip: finishing the afternoon with a cold lemonade, a fresh sub sandwich, and a view of the coast that tourists fantasized about all year.

So on a cool, waning summer day last August, as my first full summer living Wisconsin came to a close, I was excited to see how snorkeling in Lake Michigan would compare to my childhood by the ocean. I had already visited a different Wisconsin beach several times earlier in the summer to read and swim, so I knew I liked the cool of the water and the way no Atlantic saltiness crusted my skin after a dip. But as I dragged my gear down the flights of wooden stairs at the bluff on Atwater Beach near Milwaukee, I was eager about something else: the potential of seeing the wreck of the Appomattox, which had sunk off the shore in 1905.

When I was growing up, I had snorkeled some remnants of a shipwreck off the Florida coast near where I lived, but the body of the ship had barely stood above the sand. Some years, we swam over it, looking for a sign of its skeletal remains, but it would be gone for a season or two—concealed by millions of sand granules and shell bits. Its transitory nature made me feel as if the wreck existed in a dream.

The Appomattox, though, was supposed to be much more visible. It was also clearly marked on Google Maps and accessibly close to the shoreline. That morning on the beach, while I waded into the water to defog my mask, my companion scanned the water’s edge looking for where we might best start looking for the ship.

The plan was to estimate the Appomattox’s location based on where it was positioned on Google Maps and swim straight out toward it, watching the lake bottom for signs of the ship as we went. It sounded simple—but we were about to realize the search would be a lot more difficult than expected.

I fastened an orange buoy around my waist so we would be visible to any nearby boaters, and then we began our search. As we swam from the beach, I remember feeling a rush of adrenaline—the water was cold and the sun was hot, and the polarizing difference between the temperatures felt wonderful on my arms as I paddled freestyle out against the gentle waves. This was different—at the end of a Florida summer, everything was warm as bathwater.

Another difference I noticed as I began searching for the wreck was the fish below me. Or, more accurately, the fish that weren’t below me. On most snorkeling trips in Florida, you could drop anchor almost anywhere near the coast—and if there were rocks, where would also be dozens of beautiful rainbow of fish to dwell in and around them. But the floor of Lake Michigan—at least that off of Atwater—was just sandy, with intermittent spindly plants and a few pieces of garbage that made me sad. There was also was an old baseball, which is now a memento on my bookshelf.

After about half an hour of exploring, I caught sight of something else nestled in the sand: a lone, old-looking board. My companion and I were sure the board was from the Appomattox, so we kept swimming farther out—and then, having seen nothing else, we circled back around. For about two hours, we swam in vague loops around the area of that board, looking for the body from which it came.

Still, there was no sign of the ship. Not a board or a hull or a deck or the ribcage of an underbelly. Just the cool quiet the lake floor, disrupted only by a single tiny fish making passage underneath us.

By then, we were both tired from treading water and hungry for lunch. When we pulled our gear up onto the shoreline, sand infiltrating our flippers, I couldn’t help but feel a bit disappointed that I didn’t see the Appomattox with my own eyes. But I also felt hopeful. There’s something about an adventure—and looking for something that you’re not sure you’ll find—that feels like a lifeforce.

We ended the trip, too, in a perfect Wisconsin fashion: a trip to Culver’s for butterburgers and cheese curds. It was a meal that rivaled the snorkel-trip sub sandwiches I had loved so much growing up, and it was a perfect ending to our adventure.

In the weeks following, I couldn’t help thinking back on that day at Atwater. There was so much joy in it, even if we hadn’t found what we were looking for. It was the excitement of experiencing something new, of seeking something out, of aiming to discover something for yourself. For me, it was also about exploring a bit of history in my new home state—in a way that also mirrored my own formative experiences.

With all of this, it felt inevitable for me to write a love poem about that day. And a couple weeks ago, I was fortunate enough to have that poem published in issue 30 of petrichor magazine. You can read “Appomattox” on petrichor’s website now—I hope it gives a little glimpse of that wonderful day searching Lake Michigan, cheese curds and all.

And if you’re interested in learning about the Appomattox, you can read more here. Thankfully, no lives were lost in the wreck.

Last year—instead of being preoccupied by the slow yawn of springtime or the end of a college semester—I joined in the fun and shared an essay about why I love poetry. I wrote about how I started writing poetry (with a broken heart, what a cliche!), how my love of the form took off quickly from that first heartstrung poem, and how poetry is the most fertile ground I know for exploring the human experience.

Now, a year later, I still believe wholeheartedly in those words. And I still love poetry just as much. But with another year of writing poems under my belt and another National Poetry Month rising over the sky, I wanted to check in again and reflect on the past year as a poet, what I’ve learned about the form, and why I keep coming back to write more poems.

Some things written and published

I’ve written more poems this past year, and more than I can count also live unfinished in the abyss of my notes app or abandoned in Word files. This year may be the year I’ve struggled the most with unfinished work. I find myself frequently thinking of a good line or premise, then struggling a bit once I try to flesh the idea out on the page.

I’ve thought a lot about why this has been happening, and while online distractions and the general chaos of the world are contributing, I think the main challenge I’m facing as a poet is my perfectionism.

When I first started writing poetry, I fully identified as a fiction writer. I had written a poem or two as a student when I was required for class, but I never used poetry as an outlet. Then, when I did start writing poetry in 2021, I only saw it as an outlet—I didn’t think about craft or style or any of the things I considered in my fiction. I was writing poetry purely for me, with no goal beyond having fun and understanding myself better through my work.

This mindset carried me through a couple years—but as I’ve started to read poetry on a regular basis, analyze craft more deeply, and get my own work published in online literary magazines, I’ve felt a bit frozen. Where previously I wrote on instinct, now I frequently find myself second-guessing. I wonder if I’ve chosen the right word and if my ideas are too overdone or simple.

In a lot of ways, what I’m experiencing feels like growing pains. I’m an emerging writer in my early 20s trying to figure out my voice, style, and inspirations—every word I write feels like a small discovery of what I like and dislike as a creative. It would be wonderful if I understood it all instantly, but I think figuring it out as I go is part of the fun of engaging in creative work. The best part is the endless opportunity to keep trying new things.

Aside from working to discover my voice a writer this year, a few of my poems have found homes in online publications. It still doesn’t feel real to be a published writer!

Even though I shouldn’t pick favorites, one poem sticks out to me the most: “Woman as Icarus,” which came out in boats against the current in September 2025. I wrote “Woman as Icarus” in 2023, with a fervidness I’ll never forget. I was studying at the University of Iowa at the time, and the words just came to me one afternoon when I was walking back to my dorm after an art history class.

I had been daydreaming about one of my biggest desires as a little girl: to fly. And not just in an airplane or a helicopter, but like a bird. I had been obsessed with flight suits or inventing a way for humans to fly with bird-wing-like prosthetics. All of it was founded by my very active imagination, but I had wanted my obsession to be realized—so much so that I spent hours researching at my local library, reading children’s books on bird anatomy and plane mechanics.

Eventually, my enthusiasm waned and I stopped my research. I had forgotten about it for years, until that afternoon after class in 2023. Just like I had done as a flight-obsessed little girl at the library, I was thinking about my dreams. I was facing graduation the following year and was feeling so overwhelmed by life choices. Where would I work? Where would I live? Would my relationship survive distance? And the most ephemeral question: would I be happy? It felt like no matter what I chose, I would have to give something up that mattered just as much to me. In other words, it felt a lot like trying to fly and not being able to get off the ground. Or, that if I did manage to take off and chase after everything I wanted, there was an equal chance I would fall like Icarus and not get anything I had hoped for.

So “Woman as Icarus” was born. I distinctly remember speaking the opening lines of the poem aloud as I trekked up the back staircase of my dorm building, desperately trying to ensure I wouldn’t forget them before I could jot them down in my room. This is one of my favorite parts of writing poetry—a good line is important in any form of writing, but there’s something about the poetic form that truly worships a beautiful phrase. Every word feels essential, every break irrevocable. There’s nowhere for a sentence to hide.

If you want, you can read more about “Woman as Icarus” and my other poem published in boats against the current, “Afterlife,” here:

Some things learned

“Woman as Icarus” reminded me to keep advocating for my own work as a poet and to not give up on the writing I believe in, even if it faces rejection. In the case of this poem, 26 rejections! Yikes. As these piled up, it wasn’t always easy to keep submitting my poem to more journals. Still, I loved the piece so much because it carried many of the hopes I’d had a young girl—a young girl who wouldn’t have even imagined writing a poem, let alone trying to publish one. I couldn’t give up on that, so I kept submitting.

And when the poem did finally get an acceptance from boats against the current, my mindset on all of my rejections changed a little bit. They still hurt, of course, but they also reminded me of how much I still need to learn as a writer—in a good way. This is one of the reasons I love writing so much—there are endless opportunities to improve your craft and keep learning. You can always expand your vocabulary or try a new form or take on a new tone. You can write from a different perspective. You can learn how to infuse every line break with meaning. There’s always a way to better portray your ideas to your readers, if you’re willing to find it.

Honing that skill is the best challenge I’ve ever had in my life. It’s why I’m still as obsessed with writing now as I was years ago. And it’s why I imagine I’m going to be writing for a long time. Here’s to another year of more poems!

(Also: I want to shout out that a kind reader called recently offered to animate “Woman as Icarus,” and he created such a fantastic portrayal of the piece. You can watch it on Instagram or YouTube. Thank you again, Naveen!)

These conversations piqued my interest for two reasons. First, as a writer myself, I’ve also frequently felt overwhelmed by submission processes, especially when I was first starting out. Second, reading good writing is one of my favorite things in the world. The idea that uncertainty or fear around submissions might keep my next favorite writer from sharing their work is tragic to me. That’s why I’m sharing this short guide that covers every part of the literary magazine submission process, including my takes and advice on every step.

But first… Why hear it from me?

I’m an emerging writer myself, so I’m still learning a lot, but I’ve been writing for years and consistently submitting my work to literary magazines since 2024. Since, I’ve gotten 9+ poems published and at least 70 rejections (and counting!). In addition to experiencing the submissions firsthand as a writer, I’ve also worked on the publishing side of the process. In college, I ran a literary magazine for a year, and also held editing roles on other publications where I reviewed countless submissions. Since graduation, I’ve also volunteered as a creative nonfiction reader for an issue of TriQuarterly magazine. I guess you could say the writing world is my favorite thing.

Now let’s get into it!

What to submit

Literary magazines are a good place to publish short pieces of fiction, creative nonfiction, and poetry. If you write fiction or nonfiction, a lot of magazines accept pieces less than 3,000 words. Poetry submissions are usually guided by the number of poems, not the length, but some magazines have line requirements that generally favor shorter poems.

If you’re looking to publish something longer, like a novel, literary magazines aren’t the place for that (instead, you’ll want to research the querying process, which is the first step for getting a book traditionally published, or other opportunities at small- or medium-sized presses). The exception is that some magazines might except novel excerpts, if the content makes sense on its own and demonstrates a story arc. A magazine’s guidelines will cover all of their expectations (we’ll talk more about this later).

Finding a magazine

Before you submit your work anywhere, I think it’s important to consider what you want to accomplish if your work gets selected for publication.

Do you just want to get an acceptance? Are you looking for the magazine to share your work on their social media channels so you can build your following as a writer? Are you looking for a magazine that’s established and backed by a team, or a more experimental, grassroots publication spearheaded by one ambitious editor? Do you want your work to be published in print, online, or both? Do you want to get paid?

These are just some of the questions you might want to consider, which can be really overwhelming (but hopefully after reading this post, it isn’t!). Couple that with the work of finding and evaluating any of the thousands of literary magazines out there, and it’s easy to get caught up in decision paralysis. That’s why it’s not surprising to me that this is the part in the publishing process where I see a lot of writers get stuck.

To help, here are some factors I consider when deciding where to submit my work—

• Guidelines: Does my work fit the guidelines? Is it the right genre and word count? Is there a theme to the magazine or submission call, and does my work fit it?

  • Note: We’ll talk more about guidelines in the next section.

• Online Presence: One of the main reasons I submit my work to magazines is to hopefully find more readers. This is why I prioritize submitting to magazines that have some kind of social media following or are very active on social media.

• Payment: Most literary magazines don’t pay writers, but when they do I try to submit my work there. (Because who doesn’t want to get paid for a poem they spent weeks writing?)

  • Note: A lot of magazines are free to submit to, but many magazines that pay writers also require writers to pay to submit. Usually, the fee is a few dollars and goes toward the magazine’s operating costs and paying writers. A lot of these magazines also offer free submission periods or fee waivers to make submissions more accessible.

• Simultaneous Submissions: This means a magazine doesn’t mind if you submit the same piece to many magazines at once, on the condition that you let them know if another magazine accepts the piece first. Personally, I almost exclusively submit to magazines that allow simultaneous submissions. This is because most magazines have long response times, and I don’t want to wait for a reply before I can keep submitting.

• Pizzazz: It sounds superficial, but a magazine’s visual appearance holds a lot of weight to me. I think of a magazine’s design like I imagine an author thinks of a book cover—I worked really hard writing this thing, so does this magazine present my work well? Does it have a beautifully-designed website? Or gorgeous cover designs every issue? Or a cool social media aesthetic? Then I submit my work.

• Other Perks: Some magazines also have other perks. Maybe they interview the writers they publish or nominate writers’ work for prizes. These cool opportunities always make me more excited to submit.

Remember, these factors are just my preferences. You can—and should—prioritize what fits your desires and goals as a writer. If there’s anything I’ve learned from years of submitting, it’s that there are magazines out there for everything you could possibly want—you just have to find them.

That’s where my favorite submission resource, Chill Subs, comes in. Chill Subs is a free resource created by writers for writers. Among many other features, they offer a free database of literary magazines (and contests, and presses!) that you can filter by exactly what you’re looking for. Want to make sure your work fits the magazine’s guidelines? Filter by your piece’s genre, style, and word count. Want to find a magazine that fits your writing goals? Filter by a magazine’s vibe / prestige, if they have a social media presence, if they nominate work for prizes, if they pay, and more. You can also filter by magazines currently open for submissions, so you know you can submit your work right away. Simply put, Chill Subs is my submission lifeline.

There are other resources available, too. I recommend following magazines you like on social media so you can see when their submission calls open up. On Instagram, I also follow @clmorg, which frequently posts about different submission calls at magazines and small presses. Award-winning writer Jeanne Gassman also introduced me to her blog, Jeanne’s Writing Desk, where she shares submission calls for magazines, writing residencies, competitions, and more. The site Duotrope also offers a database of opportunities for writers, but it is a paid service. (I’ve never used Duotrope, but if anyone has used it or has other resources that I haven’t mentioned, feel free to drop a comment to share your experience so we can all learn more.)

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The guidelines

After you’ve decided where to submit, it’s time to look at the magazine’s guidelines and ensure your work fits the bill. In their guidelines, magazines usually state the genre (fiction, poetry, nonfiction, hybrid, etc.) and word count they’re looking for, as well as how they want you to submit (we’ll talk more about that soon).

For genre, also check if the magazine has a certain theme for the upcoming issue; if it does, make sure your work fits it.

For word count, if there is wiggle room, magazines will usually make that clear by stating they accept pieces “around X number of words” or that “if your piece goes a little over, it’s okay.” Other magazines explicitly state hard limits they don’t want you to exceed. Generally, if a magazine doesn’t state hard limit, I think it’s okay to still submit your piece if it only goes a couple hundred words over their suggested word count. However, if your piece exceeds suggested word counts by any more than that, I would find a different magazine for your work.

One thing I like to remember is that most magazines (except really big ones like The New Yorker) are staffed by unpaid editors who work in literary publishing because they love good writing, not because it’s a lucrative business. They work really hard to give us writers opportunities, and I always want to make sure I respect their time as well.

Another important aspect of the guidelines is exactly how a magazine wants your piece formatted for submission. Pay attention to if a magazine requests submissions in a .pdf or .docx format and follow their guidelines. Also pay attention to if the magazine wants your name and contact information in your document or doesn’t want any identifying information in your document (some magazines read submissions blind). If a magazine doesn’t specify, I usually don’t include any information about myself in the document. Finally, don’t forget to note any other requirements about spacing, page numbers, etc.

All of this can be a lot to do, especially if you’re submitting dozens of times, but I highly encourage all writers to follow submission guidelines. The way I think about it is that you’ve spent so much time and energy on your work—it isn’t worth risking your chance at publication by not devoting a few minutes to following the guidelines.

The cover letter

Some magazines will want you to include a cover letter, which is short note addressed to the magazine. I think a lot of writers overthink cover letters, but I highly encourage you not to. Years ago, when I first started submitting, I read advice (I don’t remember where) to keep your cover letter short and simple, because the most important part of your submission is your writing, not anything else. From my experience in literary magazine publishing, I agree with that sentiment.

When I submit, I use a general template as my cover letter and adjust some of the details for each submission. I recommend addressing your cover letter to the name of the magazine (“Dear Paris Review Team”) or, if you can find it on their website, the name of the editor who will read your submission.

In the body of the letter, you can write a short note thanking them for taking the time to read your work and that you look forward to hearing back from them. The body of the letter is also the place to note any other connections to the magazine that might help your submission succeed (though this definitely isn’t necessary). Did you meet one of the editors at a local literary festival or writers conference? Share that in your cover letter to jog their memory of you. Then, sign off with something like “Sincerely” or “With gratitude.”

Most magazines just want a general cover letter like what I described above, but some will note specific things that they want you to include in your letter. When this happens, you definitely should incorporate those elements. For example, I recently submitted to a magazine that’s based in Chicago; they wanted writers to include a note stating their connection to the city.

Whatever you write, I encourage you to keep it fairly brief; let your work do the talking.

The bio

A lot of magazines also request a writer bio to include in their publication if they accept your work. Most of the time, bios should be about 3 sentences or less than 100 words (a lot of magazines will specify what they want).

Your bio should share a little bit about yourself, like where you’re from or where you went to school, and any previous publication credits you have. If you don’t have any publication credits, that’s also okay. Everyone has to get started somewhere, and I’ve never heard of a magazine not accepting great writing because the writer hadn’t been published before.

Another thing I recommend including in your bio is your social media handle or website, that way if someone enjoys your published work, they know where to find more from you. Some magazines will also have a specific area for this information in their submission form or ask for your social links after you’re accepted.

Here’s my bio for reference—

Jenna Mather studied English and creative writing at the University of Iowa. Her work has been published in petrichor, wildscape, Discretionary Love, and others. With her work, she aims to untangle the complexities of love and creativity. On any given day, you can find her in a coffee shop—or online at @_jennamather and jennamather.com.

My bio covers my basic background and my most recent publications. I include an extra line about the general themes I write about, so someone first encountering my work can get an idea of if my writing will be of interest to them. At the end, I plug my website and social media handle. It’s four sentences but 55 words, so if a magazine specifically requests three sentences, then I delete my third sentence.

The submission

Now you have everything ready, so finally it’s time to submit!

Magazines will specify the platform they want you to use to submit. Most magazines accept submissions through email or Submittable, a free online submission platform. If you’re going to be doing a lot of submissions, I recommend making a free account on Submittable. It will make submitting faster (it remembers your information so you don’t have to type it in for every submission) and it allows you to track the status of your work after you submit.

I’ve also seen some magazines accept submissions via Google form or snail mail, but this is pretty uncommon.

Once you plug your information into the magazine’s platform of choice and attach your writing, hit that submit button and cross your fingers that you’ll get published!

The waiting

Generally, it takes magazines months to review submissions. Most magazines will include information about response times on their website or in an automatic email triggered by your submission. Chill Subs also includes an estimated response time on each magazine’s page.

Especially if you’re doing simultaneous submissions, I recommend keeping track of your submissions in a spreadsheet or on Chill Subs’ submission tracker. Personally, I use a Google Sheet where I note the name of the piece I submitted, the magazine, and the expected response time. When I get an acceptance or rejection, I highlight that line green or red accordingly.

If a magazine still hasn’t gotten back to you in the expected response time, check their website to see if they note extended response times. If not, it’s okay to kindly follow up via email or Submittable note to ask how things are coming along.

Similarly, if you’ve submitted a piece to multiple magazines and you receive an acceptance from one (yay!), it’s proper etiquette to inform the other magazines still evaluating that piece that it is no longer available for publication.

The response

If you get an acceptance—congratulations! That is such an exciting step. Sometimes, an editor from the publication will reach out asking for more information from you, like a headshot or revised bio, or even offer some small edits to your work. You might also be asked to review a proof before publication—this just means you’ll get an advanced link or .pdf of your piece before publication day so you can confirm there are no typos or errors in formatting, etc.

If you get a rejection—it never feels good, but remember that all writers have faced a lot of rejection (it’s kind of a group bonding experience for us!). The most important thing is to not let a rejection make you doubt your work or value as a creative.

If there’s one thing that should never make you feel down about a rejection, it’s what I learned when I worked on literary magazines as a student at the University of Iowa: that publication is so subjective. I imagine most writers have heard that phrase many times, but it’s another thing to see it in person. In my roles, I took part in countless meetings where we evaluated pieces for publication. Every piece was carefully discussed from various points of view and had multiple readers. (Most magazines operate this way, so you know your work is thoughtfully considered.) I can remember many times when a piece that someone—or many people—absolutely loved didn’t end up getting published. Maybe there was another piece too similar to it that was already getting published. Or maybe there were just other pieces that the editors liked more. No matter the reason for rejection, it was never personal.

Simply, a rejection is not a reflection on your work—it’s simply the inevitable product of a subjective, human-driven process. And, more than likely, somebody still enjoyed your work, even if they couldn’t crown it with an acceptance.

No matter if you get acceptances or rejections, I think it’s important to celebrate that you took the first step toward publication by submitting your work. Putting yourself out there is no easy feat, especially given the personal nature of written work.

Closing thoughts

I hope this article provided a helpful starting point for your submission / publication journey. Remember that all of us writers are in this together—writing, submitting, learning, revising, and submitting again. That’s my final piece of advice—never give up on your work. Your writing will find a great publication home, if only you give it the chance. (I was reminded of this last year, when my favorite poem finally got published after years of persistently submitting.)

If you have any other submission tips or thoughts or experiences or questions, please share them in the comments so we can all learn more from each other. Otherwise, good luck submitting! I can’t wait to read your work when it gets published.

i pull a poem from my body like a dead tooth/hide it
under my pillow/for you/to hold this one piece of me
while i sleep/you know all writers need fast cash/so i
rip the words out myself/for the page/i wrap my tooth
in paper like a gift/for you/a stain/for me/a red pillow.

Note: This poem was originally published in the Bitter Melon Review in May 2025.

down over the sheen of olive oil,
elbows gritted against the countertop;

on my upper lip, a freckle of pink salt
flavors the last place you kissed me.

So I crack the pepper, marry the shakers.
Another way to say people hate being alone:

recipes must have more than one ingredient.
A lump of garlic sizzles into the pan. I crack

the next clove like an egg, flip the page. Push
the clamp down again. Some say amateur chefs

force feed flavor, but seasoned lovers know
to squeeze the pungent moments for a taste.

One second, I was rummaging blindly into my purse for my keys—and the next my ankle buckled against uneven concrete. I was on the ground, pain firing hot from my foot to my leg. I don’t remember falling, only the grit of concrete on my hands as I met the ground, the hollow clank of stainless steel as my water bottle bounced against the rim of my car’s front tire. My bag tumbled open against the ground somewhere I couldn’t see. Above it all, a harsh crack rang in my ears, which I stubbornly refused to believe had come from somewhere within me. The world suddenly felt upside down—the only certainty was the diffuse pain in my foot and that I knew I wouldn’t be able to stand.

I’d never broken a bone before, something I’d bragged to several of my coworkers about a couple weeks before the incident. As if it were an achievement of some kind, and not an indication that I might spend too many hours at my desk writing poems. Splayed on the concrete, the irony felt like karma. Because after that afternoon—when the nurse at the university clinic squinted at the X-ray on her desktop monitor with a dooming, piteous frown—I would officially have broken a bone. When she diagnosed that I had broken my fifth metatarsal, the thin bone on the outside edge of the foot, I cried. The doctors outfitted me with a boot, loaded me into a wheelchair, and sent me on my way. To them, it was any other Sunday. To me, a dramatic writer, it felt just shy of terminal.

I drove back to Wisconsin an hour later, accompanied by the dull throb of pain in my left foot. On the way, I tried not to think about the challenge that had suddenly beamed down on the next few months of my life. It was impossible. I drove through frosted, off-season cornfields trying to deduce how I’d navigate between my office job and my couch with the least effort possible. I made strategies for grocery shopping and conceptualized the easiest ways to manage a shower. It felt like everything had to be relearned. Consumed and scared by it all, I couldn’t imagine feeling inspired to create.

A couple days after the break, though, that feeling changed. Sprawled on my couch, my laptop propped open on my legs, I began to write the moment of my fall as a poem. I didn’t go into it with much forethought—I just wanted the outlet of writing about the experience. I wanted the release of transforming something shocking and awful into something beautiful. Making pain into a purpose. A way of expression beyond the swelled purple bruise that had taken over my left foot.

I wrote on instinct, rewinding through that afternoon. I remembered how each second after I’d hit the concrete had felt spliced together in slow motion. I remembered how the drive to clinic had been less than 10 minutes but felt like hours. I remembered how hollow and quiet and endless I’d felt. How the moments before, during, and after the fall seemed irrevocably separated from each other. On the page, I connected these moments with slashes to mimic how I’d felt.

It took me a day or two to write “Fifth Metatarsal,” and when I finished I didn’t want to share it with anyone. It was stylistically different than anything I’d ever written, and while I hoped it was good, I also wanted to shred it. I generally loved to share my work, but I didn’t know if I was ready to let anyone read the inner monologue of one of the most vulnerable moments in my recent life.

I think I’m always in the process of learning that vulnerable writing is usually the best writing. For “Fifth Metatarsal,” I needed the distance of a couple months to pass before I realized I truly loved the poem—not just the writing itself, but the full story of creating it. Writing “Fifth Metatarsal” reminded me that words can make the best or worst or most ordinary experiences into something purposeful.

Months later, at the end of 2025, long after I’d shed my crutches and boot, I read the poem aloud for the first time at an open mic. I hadn’t read my work aloud in over a year, and I was nervous. When I stood up at the microphone—which was at the front of a hunched little room in an Irish pub—my hands shook. Then, I took a deep breath and let my words stand for themselves.

After the event, as we all shuffled our empty pint glasses off the tables, a woman whom I had sat near shared that “Fifth Metatarsal” resonated with the time she had broken a bone. Her words reminded me that creative work is kind of like an X-ray, for lives instead of bodies. It can reveal connections that might otherwise remain out of sight. Broken pieces are there, too, but that’s all part of the story.

Last month, I got to make one last connection with “Fifth Metatarsal” when the poem was published in issue 5 of wildscape literary journal. I’m so grateful to the team there for helping my poem run, when I never thought it would get off my couch.

You cooked me dinner last night,
and I can still taste the warmth of
sirloin and butter and your lips and
our bed after two cocktails. Tangled
in the sheets, I can remember our first
meal: vegetable risotto and salmon at
a candlelit restaurant before we walked
along the riverbank, me under your arm
among the crisp rose petals of fall leaves.
Back in your room, I tasted the cologne
on your skin while you freed my dress
and my self-control and my appetite in
that same gentle way you crack an egg
so we can share cookie dough and wine
on the duvet at midnight. I’m still hungry
from our first months apart—I remember
the bouquets you sent me, the starvation
of our kisses in the car when you met
me at the airport with your love and a
sandwich and another seven recipes for
us to try. This is just one reason I want
to spend my life with you: even on
February 15th, I crave our next meal.

(This poem was originally published in the November 2024 poetry issue of Blue Marble Review.)

In the clouds, they tell you the trick
is in the landing—you’re supposed to fall
dusty and fast and feet first, eyes always on the ground,
soft knees, ready to stick it. When selecting
the dropzone, they tell you to look for the grayest place:
that house with dark windows, the marquee missing
a few letters, the shoulders of the woman walking
her new puppy at 3am. Anywhere that needs a little happiness.
(You'll be shoveled away later, but first you'll be loved
into a snowman.) Their last advice: you can’t flake now.
They tell you the world could be so different if everyone
knew how to arrive and make life beautiful.

“We need to break up” came about in the same way as a lot of my poems—unexpectedly. I was on a walk to class during one of my last months of college, enjoying the cool early spring air by the Iowa River. I was almost to the building when I passed a couple of guys on the sidewalk. Out of curiosity, I paused the music in my headphones, interested to hear what they were talking about. One of them said something about “needing to break up,” but those were the only words I heard from their conversation before I was out of earshot. I’m a total romantic, so of course I was instantly intrigued. What had gone wrong in the relationship they were discussing? Why would there be a break up? But even more, I was caught by the idea that I had taken their conversation completely out of context. What if they were talking about something totally different, and I had just misinterpreted them?

As I crossed the street to enter the art building, I wondered about other contexts for “breaking up.” Oddly, as I don’t have a green thumb at all, the first thing that came to mind was soil and gardening. The rest of the poem grew from there.

We need to break up

the soil, i heard
someone say, to keep
growing the garden we need to break up the soil
together, to press
our palms into the hot dirt
after a rainstorm until i
feel my fingers in the soft body
of the earth & my
lover’s breath on my cheek like summer breeze
on the stalks & we gather
ourselves together for compost
in the bin with the fruit peels
i’ve licked deliciously bare
of this sweetness we keep growing.

From the moment I finished writing this poem, I loved how it was inspired, even if the story was a relatively simple one. I even made the title of the poem a misnomer to create a bait-and-switch experience for the reader that mimicked the moment that inspired the piece.

Aside from “We need to break up,” though, I also just love origin stories in general when it comes to creative projects—especially when I get to hear other writers and artists tell them. There’s something so compelling about understanding what makes another person create, what ignites the spark in their mind. It’s beautiful to see how everyone is inspired by different things in the world, and how those inspirations blossom into exceptional creative work. It’s the perfect illustration of the way we all see the world through different lenses—and how art is an essential way of sharing experiences by letting others put on your glasses, if just for a little while.

If you’re a creative of any sort, I’d love to hear what inspires your work. Drop a comment on this post about what sparks your urge to create—after all, art is the best light I know.

I wrote “Woman as Icarus” in 2023. The opening lines came to my head as I walked back to my dorm from an art history class at the University of Iowa. I remember speaking the lines aloud as I made my way through the dorm’s basement and up the back staircase by the washing machines, desperately trying to make sure I wouldn’t lose the words before I could put them to paper up in my room. That memory perfectly encapsulates one of my favorite parts of writing—the magical feeling that you may be onto something beautiful and ephemeral, and you have to trap it in paper before it can escape forever.

It took me a couple days to write the full poem, and when it was solidified in front of me, it instantly became one of my favorite things I’d ever written (and I know I shouldn’t pick favorites, but it still is). Before long, I sent it to some of my writer friends for feedback, revised it, and then I started the Sisyphean task of submitting it to literary magazines for publication.

Over the past two years, I’ve flung “Woman as Icarus” at most every open poetry call I could find. Twenty-six times, it returned to me packaged in a kind but impersonal rejection letter, but I kept going. Little did I know that submission number 27 would be my winning shot. That’s how “Woman as Icarus” found its perfect home in boats against the current.

Woman as Icarus

When I was a girl,
I was too obsessed
with making myself;
I wanted to construct
some flying machine
made of bird-wing
feathers and duct
tape that would
transform unreachable
clouds into steps
for my small feet.
So I read all about
old plane cylinders
and bird bones, until
I learned I needed to
be hollow if I ever
wanted to be free.

I share about those 26 rejections because it’s easy to give up or let yourself get discouraged. I certainly felt discouraged sometimes, especially when a rejection email would ding into my inbox on an already bad day or when I was supposed to be having fun. (Something about the way rejection emails feel during a trip or vacation is particularly tough, which I learned when I got one while exploring the National Gallery of Art in Washington, DC.) But I also remembered the triumph I felt when I first repeated the poem’s opening lines aloud or when I decided that it was finished. It was a kind of fulfillment, a glorious mix of happiness and nerves and pride, that I’ve only felt from creating a piece of writing that feels true to me—and I knew I didn’t want a few rejections to steal that feeling away.

The challenge is that writing is a mostly solitary act that can easily become an echo chamber of either positive or negative feedback. As an emerging writer whose feedback loop is fairly small—and who is continuously putting my work out in the hope of publication and, as an inevitable result, receiving a lot of rejections—I’ve found that one of the most important things a writer can do for their own sanity is to create a balance of feedback. Surround yourself with people who will cheer you on and tell you that your work is great, but also when you should edit a line or switch up your rhyme scheme.

No matter who surrounds you, though, it can be really tough to keep putting yourself out there as a creative. That’s why I think persistence is one of the most important parts of any creative practice, especially one as subjective as writing. It’s easy to quit or give up, and a lot of people do. But now I’ve seen firsthand that if you believe in your own work enough, if you keep swallowing that risk of rejection, eventually your work will be find a spot. You just have to keep trying.

And you never know—sometimes, you might get an easy win. My submission to boats against the current was only the second time I’d submitted “Afterlife” (which I wrote in early 2025) for publication. When I learned that it would be published with “Woman as Icarus", I wasn’t blind to the irony—two poems, written nearly two years apart, one of which I’d kept going to bat for and the other I’d thrown into my submission packet because I thought it was cute. The fact that both poems crossed the finish line in sync felt a bit cruel, but also wonderful and hilarious. It was the perfect reminder that things will happen when they’re meant to, as long as you persistently give them a chance.

Afterlife

Some life I’ll have,
away from here.
Maybe I’ll dance
on the beach naked
& drunk until sand
fills my bellybutton;
I’ll eat pancakes
every morning &
butter them in sunshine,
chew raw sugar 
crystals without ever
growing the weeds 
of rot in my teeth.
Or maybe I’ll
wish for the hard
ache of Tuesday,
cooking a thankless
meal on sore feet;
maybe I’ll envelop
my body in seawater
& wish it was you.

The best thing you can do is to keep showing up with a brave heart and a pen in your hand. Someone wants to see the world through your eyes if you let them.

It wasn’t my degree that left me confused—I’ve always wanted to be writer, but that goal always came with a structure. In middle school, I wrote with other teens during summer camps and, in college, my essays were punctuated by sharp deadlines from my professors. At the University of Iowa, I was also integrated into a city where writing was revered and celebrated. That culture was an energizing force behind my own creativity, to an extent I don’t think I realized until I graduated. In Iowa City, I had to write, because there was nothing else I would rather have done.

Then, everything changed, in the way all great things eventually must. I submitted my final literary analysis, tugged my graduation gown over my shoulders, duct-taped by broken platform heels, and walked across the stage at my university’s basketball arena. When I took my first step, I was an undergraduate wondering what kind of life I wanted to build for myself, unsure about everything except my love of writing. And when I stepped off the stage, I was the exact same—only I held a piece of paper that I had to put to use, somehow.

The following few months were chaotic. I applied to countless jobs. I took a trip to Cozumel, Mexico, where I drank mezcal brewed with scorpion tails and spent my afternoons luxuriating in the ocean. Once I was home again, I expended a decent amount of energy avoiding unpacking the boxes I’d brought home from college, strategically wearing the same 6 outfits over and over again. With my focus on job hunting and life in general, my writing drifted to the wayside. But I wasn’t worried—I was stressed and preoccupied, but I knew that when I finally settled somewhere, I would dive back into writing with the same eagerness I always had. After all, writing had always been my space. I’d taken hiatuses and come back, but writing was always my outlet, my entertainment, my way of understanding my emotions. It was my world and my favorite way to spend my time.

Then, real life rushed at me in full force. I found a job. I scrambled to find a place to live and I moved across the country. In my new place, I organized my bookshelves and picked the art I wanted to hang on my walls and arranged my excessive collection of coffee makers. I scoured the surrounding area for the best cafes, bars, bookstores, and libraries. I learned how easy it is to burn onions when you’re trying to sauté them. I rode the train to nearby cities. I learned how to use a tire pump and which household cleaners were best suited to my countertops.

And just like that, before I knew it, after everything that had changed, it was just as everyone had promised—I’d settled into my new home. I’d found my way, at least for now. But I still wasn’t writing.

It wasn’t that I didn’t want to write. I did, more than anything, but every time I curled up with my laptop, the words I produced felt empty and wrong and not at all like me. I would get a few good lines down, and then I would lose the thread of the story. My poems felt emotionless, a feeling garnished by the steady stream of rejection emails I received from literary magazines. And the novel I wanted to write? It was a story I’d dreamed of for years—a story I was really excited about—but every word typed or plot point outlined came at the cost of my sanity and several caffeinated beverages.

For one of the first times I can remember, I was in a creative lull.

This feeling persisted long enough that I started to panic about it, and I still do. Even now, as I write this, I feel the creeping weight of it. It’s unnerving and terrifying to have something you love, something that’s your refuge when you’re bored or sad or heartbroken, suddenly go cold. It feels like you’ve lost the essence of yourself, and all you want is to get it back. That’s what I’m trying to do.

So, when the feeling first started, I kept trying to write. I felt a clawing itchiness under my skin every time I sat down at my computer. Forcing myself to write—an act I thought would make me feel encouraged or productive or excited—became the opposite of everything I’d known it to be. You can do it, I thought, my hands restless over my keyboard. This time you’ve got it. Prove to yourself that you’re back and you can still do this. You’re a writer.

I don’t think that’s a mindset creativity can thrive in, at least not for me. I think creativity is something that’s best nurtured, not forced to grow. That’s why I started writing years and years ago—because it was an art form I could continuously be a student of, whether I was in school or not. But, even more, I started writing because I thought it was fun.

And writing is fun—but it’s also complicated. In high school and college, I wrote voraciously, but also without pressure. Since graduation, I think I’ve subconsciously intimidated myself with the need to be successful immediately. To write well and write quickly, and get that writing published even faster. In reality, I think it’s these in between moments—when we don’t know exactly what we’re doing, but we’re trying to figure it out—that shape us the most, especially in our creative practice.

There’s a quote from one of my favorite authors, V. E. Schwab, about writing that I often rely on:

Some days are typing days, and some days are deleting days, and some days are thinking days, and all of those are writing days.

I love this quote because it doesn’t just allow for the ups and downs of the writing process, it embraces them. It also explains that as long as you keep showing up—in whatever way feels accessible and enjoyable to you—the story will get written when it’s meant to. It opens the pressure valve and reminds you to take a breath when you need it most.

Right now, I’m trying to take that breath. To show up at the page often, but in the ways that feel natural and exciting to me. Some days it’s by writing a poem, and some days it’s by writing an essay like this Substack post. Some days it’s by working on my novel. On other days, it’s by submitting my writing to literary magazines or jotting down notes in my journal.

Every bit counts when you’re laying words down like bricks in the path you want to travel.

Recently, though, I haven’t spent much time drafting or even outlining my idea. The reason being is, among other things, that I feel caught between several stories. I came up with a novel concept that I love, but I’m struggling to etch out the details of my plot. And there’s another idea, for a novel of a completely different genre (contemporary romance!) that’s creeping into my head. Right now, I’m trying to consider and plot down elements of both ideas to decide which one I want to dedicate my time to and which might be a better story. I hope they’re the same.

One thing I struggle with as a writer—that I think a lot of creatives can relate to—is considering the longevity of a project. When I think about the length of a project like a novel—months of writing, weeks of editing and revising in rounds with beta readers and on my own, and then more months of my submitting my story to literary agents—I feel a sense of pressure, because I want to love my story enough to happily dedicate years of my creative life to it. It feels like committing to a relationship: you probably won’t keep going on dates if you don’t think it’s going somewhere.

So, if I haven’t been working on my book, what have I been doing? The little things that I love, that end up inspiring me to write. One of my recent goals has been to read more and watch TV less, which has led me to read some really great books. I’m currently listening to Everything is Tuberculosis by John Green as an audiobook, which, aside from just helping me learn about the struggles of the infection, is reminding me that everything in our world is interconnected in some way, and that those intersections can be the most intriguing places to write from. I’m also reading Melissa Febos’ new memoir The Dry Season—she’s one of my favorite writers, and every sentence she touches turns to gold!

I’ve also been writing poetry, and I’m excited to share that I have two poems (“Woman as Icarus” and “Afterlife”) coming out in the magazine boats against the current in September! In comparison to the duration of novel writing, I love the brevity of poems and the way I can dedicate an hour or an afternoon to writing and possibly walk away with a finished piece. (A little bit of short term gratification never hurt anybody, right?) I also find writing shorter pieces is a nice way to experiment with different styles and keep learning more skills as a writer while I take the time to figure out my longer projects.

In the face of a slow-going drafting process, I’m trying to remind myself that any progress is better than no progress. Any time I sit down at my computer and come up with a breakthrough idea for my novel or a vision for a scene, I’m inching forward toward that finished product I’m so excited about. And any time I write a poem or feel inspired from reading a great novel, I’m growing into myself as a creative and writer. It’s a cliche, but one that I stand by—the little victories (a published poem, a beautiful line written, a polished outline, an exciting idea) are what make this writing journey worthwhile every step of the way.

It was also a project I’d dragged on in bursts for several years. Over and over again, I wrote furiously for months at a time, knocking out chapter after chapter, then abandoned the story for just as long. The result was a book that, while almost complete at 70,000 words, sat untouched in a folder on my laptop. And that, as 2024 neared its end, I just couldn’t stand to work on anymore.

It had been over two years since I’d started it, and I’d changed a lot since I wrote the book’s first chapter in a little coffee shop / vintage store in downtown Iowa City. The novel felt like a time capsule of who I was during my first year of college—as I tried to figure out life goals, my personal style, dating, and what I actually wanted to write about—not authentic who I was in present. Now, I was living in a different state, working a “big girl job," and settled into a relationship that made the drama in my romance novel draft feel frustratingly insincere.

Romance is one of my favorite genres, so I thought about rewriting my story, but the idea of spending another year redoing everything I had worked on, and then spending even more time editing it and trying to get it published, made me want close my laptop forever.

Cue a blank page and a different novel idea that’s been lingering in the back of my mind for a couple years. This story felt—and still feels—so much more exciting to me. It has the romance that I love, but also disguises (lots of masquerade balls!), deception, and deeply flawed friendships. It has characters with lots of little, destructive secrets that will get revealed in the most dramatic ways possible. It’s also inspired by the city of Venice, a place that’s always fascinated me.

Now, it’s the middle of 2025, I’ve decided to get serious about writing this story and jump back into the drafting trenches.

I started this Writing Diaries section of my newsletter Subplots because I want to write about the thousands of little moments of this writing process in real time, as I’m working through it. I want to see how my work keeps evolving with me, hold myself accountable to keep writing through the highs and lows of drafting, and connect with other writers working on their novels.

If there’s one thing I know about writing, it’s that it’s as difficult as it is rewarding. And if I really want to see where this story might take me, I have to start drafting it.

Welcome to The Writing Diaries.